


speak no evil

by cosmoscorpse



Series: ulysses [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: BoS critical, Gen, More Bad Ways To Deal With Grief, Post-Canon, This is Not the Canon Ending you were looking for, offscreen/implied character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmoscorpse/pseuds/cosmoscorpse
Summary: "What's eating you, kid?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> this story chronologically takes place after both _the floors of silent seas_ and _piper is going to sanctuary hills_. in terms of narrative, it is the third in a series. at this point you'll probably want to read the first two.

_i._

“Quit fussing, or this’ll scar.”

 

_iii._

Rain slicks down Vadim’s face, dripping off the hook of his nose, the curve of his frown. The neon sign in the alley doesn’t do much in the way of lighting: it casts his face into deep shadow. Nick can still see the woman he’s carrying, cradled in his arms.

If Nick had a heart, he thinks it’d be stopping now. It’s too familiar of a sight – it’s too much like –

For a few solid seconds, there’s no sound but the whir of Nick’s servos, Vadim’s heavy breath, and the rain coming down off the tin roofs. Nick feels stuck in amber – frozen in time.

“You want I can put her down somewhere?” Vadim rumbles, and Nick drags his eyes away from her still, still form, ducks his chin in some form of a nod. He steps to the side, lets the man shoulder into the agency.

“Bed is fine,” Nick says, keeping his voice low – this time of night, Ellie’s bound to be fast asleep, or getting there, and he doesn’t – he doesn’t want to wake her. Not for this, whatever _this_ ends up being. He gestures with his left hand, “Just behind the wall there. Is she…?”

“She will be fine, I am thinking,” Vadim says, his voice surprisingly soft. He sets his burden down on the mattress, smooths her dark hair down over her skull. Now that she’s in the light Nick can see her chest rising and falling – a bit quick, he thinks, but – at least she’s breathing. “She is maybe having a fever, perhaps – she could not stand up. Thought it was best to bring her here.”

Nick rolls his shoulders, nods again. “Where’s Piper at?” he asks. He saw her browsing in the market just the other day – and then after the whole _fiasco_ today he expects her to be nearby.

Vadim shrugs. “Ms. Wright is gone a few hours ago – I do not know where.”

That gives Nick pause. He takes that information and files it away. “Thanks, Vadim,” he says, and the big man nods and retreats, shutting the door behind him. Alone, he’s struck by a wave of déjà vu – months ago, the last time something like this happened. Nick stares at the wall for a minute, before he shakes his head and pulls a chair up to the side of the mattress. He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. Late. He’ll just have to wait for it to pass.

She starts shivering on the mattress. He reaches under the bed and pulls out a quilt, tucks it over her shoulders before he leans back in his chair, clenching and unclenching his bare hand, loosening the metal joints. He wants a cigarette – to be able to breathe in and let it settle into his lungs – to feel the sweet sting of smoke held too long, the nicotine rush. He wishes he didn’t have the memory of it. It would help to not know what he’s missing.

“Ah, kid,” he sighs, rubbing at his forehead, stretching his jaw and feeling the metallic creak of the gears through his entire skull. There’s nothing but the ticking of his watch and the too-quick hush of her breathing.

He settles in to wait.

 

_ii._

There’s a slight breeze coming up off the ocean – it tugs at the grasses in the courtyard but does nothing for the heat. The heat doesn’t bother Nick much anyway, with his coolant and the shade of the wall he’s standing under – and if it bothers anyone else they aren’t showing it. They stand still and they hold their breath, keep their hands on their weapons and their eyes on the gates and on the General.

_She’s_ standing at attention in the center of the courtyard, the breeze tugging at her unbound hair. Grasses snap under her boots, summer-dry, the iron of the buttons on her coat and of her chest plate glinting in the bright sunlight. Nick can’t see her face from where he’s standing, but he knows it’s impassive. Ice cold, solid stone. She’s always had a hell of a poker face. He watches her hands curl into fists behind her back.

The vertibirds had circled above before landing in the plains north of the gates. It’s just a waiting game now.

_“You will wait,”_ she’d said to all of them in her flat iron-voice, her General’s voice, _“Until I move. Not a second before.”_

Ronnie Shaw stands the closest to Nick, leaning casually in a doorway, chewing tobacco. Preston Garvey stands on the walls, a dark silhouette against the sky. There are thirty men and women, in total, scattered around the courtyard and on top of the walls, some come from as far as Kingsport. All waiting.

There’s a long, high whistle, and then the gates open. A regimented group of seven people enter. Three figures lead them: two men, standing tall, and one woman in power armor standing taller than either of them. The other four follow, dressed in flight-suits and fatigues and armor.

The General does not move to greet them. They walk toward her instead, one of the men pulling ahead of his two companions.

Nick’s never seen the man in person before – that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who he is. There’s only one man fitting his description that was invited here today, “ _to talk of peace,”_ she’d said. He settles in front of the General, his chin lifted and proud, his eyes hawkish and appraising. He looks young, Nick thinks. Little more than an entitled teenager wearing a too-big coat.

“Paladin Lacks,” Maxson says, his voice rough and carrying throughout the courtyard. He and the General stand eye to eye – Nick wishes, again, that he could see her expression. Instead he watches her fists tighten. “Your recent actions have put me in something of a bind. I’m not entirely certain whether I should congratulate or reprimand you.”

Nick sees her head tilt. If she says anything in response to that he can’t hear it, but to his side Ronnie Shaw curses low and spits. Maxson holds her gaze for another long, quiet minute before he turns away from her, casual disdain in his posture as he paces around her, examining the interior of the courtyard like it’s only slightly more interesting than a pile of Brahmin shit. Ronnie curses again.

Maxson’s gaze lingers on Nick for a moment longer than anywhere else, his lip curling up into a sneer. Nick raises his chin and hopes that he can see the yellow of his eyes.

The General turns, following his movements. “From what I hear, _Arthur_ ,” she says his name like it burns her tongue, “I should be the one congratulating you.”

He stops and turns to her, bristling. He crowds into her space, like an afterthought, like a man used to using his bulk to his advantage. She does not flinch.

“You’ve been busy,” she finishes softly, her head tilting again. She looks hungry, Nick thinks. “Haven’t you?”

 

_iii._

Rain floods down over the roofs. He can hear a leak somewhere in the office, water plinking down on something metal. The clock ticks over to another hour.

“You’re a goddamn bleeding heart, Valentine,” her voice, when it comes, is slow and creaking. Nick leans forward, sees that her eyes are open and glassy. Fixed on the wall.

“And you’re a goddamn pain in my ass, darlin’,” he snaps back, letting a note of fondness bleed through. His hand settles heavy on the curve of her skull, and he works his fingers through the knots in her hair, a familiar motion by now. Her eyes close, and she sighs and leans into the touch.

“I know,” she says, her voice tiny. She shifts under the quilt, tucking her head more firmly into the mattress.

“How’s your leg?” he asks. She shrugs.

“Doesn’t hurt more than it usually does,” she says. “Piper’s gone. She’s not coming back.”

Nick’s hand stills for a moment before he keeps carding his fingers through her hair. He keeps his silence, waiting for her to continue.

Sure enough, she says, “We fought, " like a confession, like it’s clogging up her throat, “She was right about a lot of things.”

Nick sighs, rests his chin on his free hand, leaning heavily on the mattress. “Aw, kid,” he says, running his fingers lightly over her neck.

“It’s fine, Nick,” she says, “It – it doesn’t matter.”

She turns her face away, and doesn’t say anything else.

And it – it reminds Nick of –

 

_i._

“Quit fussing, or this’ll scar,” Nick grumbles.

“What’s it fuckin’ matter to you?” the kid asks, his voice all combative fire. There’s an edge of wariness, too, carefully hidden. Nick’s seen it before – in people hit too often to expect anything else when a hand’s extended to them. “What do you want from me, man?”

Nick pulls back. The cut over the boy’s cheek is as clean as it’s going to be. He sets the rag to the side, and really looks at the young man sitting in front of him. He’s young, maybe twenty. No older than twenty-five. He’s got bruises on his throat, a healing black eye and a splatter of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. One of his eyes is more dilated than the other – if Nick had to guess, he’d say concussion, but he’s no doctor.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. The boy’s hands are shaking, the knuckles on his left hand split open and raw.

 

_iii._

He’s quiet for a long minute. Then, slowly, “Edith, did you take anything?”

She laughs, a quick and harsh sound. She shakes her head. “I wanted to,” she breathes, “But, no. not for a couple of days. I’m going to – I’ll visit Sun tomorrow.”

Nick hums again. His voice crackles and snaps when he speaks next. “Nah,” he says, “You’ll stay here and rest. Ellie and I’ll get what you need in the morning.”

She breathes out – he thinks he sees some tension bleed out of her. “Thanks,” she says, and she finally opens her eyes and turns to face him fully. He watches her eyes dart all over him, settling finally on the space behind his right shoulder. She smiles a little, and he returns the expression, tired and careworn.

Nick hums – it sounds like a burst of static. He rubs his fingers in gentle circles on her scalp – and she sniffles, wipes at her eyes. He pulls his hand away and stands up, his joints creaking. She makes a soft questioning sound, her eyes following his movement.

"I'll be right back," he assures her.

He turns off the overhead lights in the office, locks the front door of the agency. Closes up shop for the night, finally. There’s still paperwork on his desk, abandoned when Vadim knocked. He leaves it where it is and lights a candle, comes back to the chair with only it to light the gloom.

She’s turned onto her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. For a moment, he doesn’t see her breathing and he freezes, fear seizing whatever passes for a heart in him, the flame of the candle flickering. Then she moves, turns her head to the light, and the moment passes.

He sighs and settles back into the chair, setting the candle down on a step of the staircase, fixing it there with the melted wax.

“Heard what you did for Danny,” he says after a long beat of silence between them. Everyone in the city has, and – what happened after, too. “That was really something, sweetheart.”

He thinks she might need to hear it – she snorts, the corners of her lips quirking up. Self-deprecating. He lays his hand over hers.

 

_ii._

Maxson’s shoulders tense – a muscle in his jaw ticks. The second man steps forward, then, his face creased into something like contempt. “I’d advise you to be careful, _Paladin_ ,” he warns.

The General’s gaze snaps to him. She raises a brow.

And, Nick notices that the woman who accompanied the two men has stepped back, her face impassive. The four other Brotherhood soldiers behind her shift uncomfortably, their hands on their weapons. The breeze stills for a moment, the hot air stagnating.

The air in the courtyard sings with tension, coiled tight as a spring.

The General smiles, sharp as knives, and it slides off her face just as quickly as it came.

“Lancer-Captain Kells, this is _my_ castle,” she says it almost kindly, as if she’s sharing a joke.

She reaches into her coat and pulls out a pistol, and in the next breath she puts a bullet into Arthur Maxson’s temple. Her face is placid, beatific when she turns the barrel to Kells’ forehead.

There’s a moment of pure silence followed an almost instant clamor, shouts of surprise and horror rising from the group of four soldiers still in the courtyard, Kells swearing, his face twisted into something ugly. The Minutemen on the walls level their rifles down at them, and then no one moves.

Maxson falls onto his knees, and then onto his back, and he jerks once and then is still, blood from the little hole above his left eye soaking into the earth under his head. Kells raises his hands up next to his ears, his eyes narrowed.

“What the hell is this?” he hisses.

Edith smiles – it’s more a baring of teeth than anything else.

“For acts of war, including but not limited to: the invasion of a foreign territory; the exploitation of and casual disregard for the lives of the civilians living in that foreign territory; and the deliberate, wholesale murder of countless _noncombatants_ ,” she grinds this out, speaking slowly and carefully, her voice carrying throughout the courtyard, “I, General Edith Lacks of the Commonwealth Minutemen, find you Joseph Kells and Arthur Maxson solely-”

“ _What the hell is this?”_ Kells shouts, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

“- _Solely_ _responsible_ ,” Edith raises her voice to speak over him, “And I sentence you to death.”

She pauses then, the smile sliding off her face.

“It’s too kind,” she says, so whisper-soft that Nick almost doesn’t hear it, lowering her gun minutely. She shakes her head, and she pulls the trigger again.

Kells is silent and standing for only a moment before he chokes, drops to the earth, his hands trying - failing to stem the flow of blood from his throat. Edith sighs, watching him twitch with disinterest.

Eventually his hands slip away from his throat, and the light fades out of his eyes. It takes three whole, tense minutes. She looks away, holsters her gun.

 

_i._

“Bullshit. Everyone wants something,” the boy says, eyes sharp. Nick rolls his eyes.

“I mean it,” he sighs, running a contemplative thumb over his ruined cheek, processors humming, “You don’t owe me shit.”

“Bullshit,” the boy says again, and – there’s a note of something in his voice. A bit of fire. Nick thinks, _huh_ , and glances at the boy again. Really _looks_ at him, and thinks _maybe, maybe_.

“Alright,” he says slow, "You’re a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, kid. If you’re so anxious to balance the books – I got a letter that needs delivering.”

He’s not sure if the boy can be trusted – not yet. But, it’s just a delivery, and lord knows Ag always needs more runners. They’ll decide if he can be useful.

His eyes narrow. “Where to?”

“Some associates of mine, outside of Goodneighbor,” Nick says, speaking carefully, “Bear in mind, this requires a bit of, ah, _discretion_. You bring them the letter, help them out a little, and keep your mouth shut about it, we’ll call it even.”

The boy’s silent, his lanky frame coiled tense. Nick already knows he’s going to agree to the delivery, and he’s got a feeling that it won’t be the last he’ll see of him.

“Who knows,” Nick continues, “You might make some friends.”

 

_ii._

“Ingram,” Edith says, her voice carrying a thread of weariness. The woman straightens up and steps forward, her power armor frame clanking and hissing.

“General,” Ingram says, her voice even, no expression on her face, “The Prydwen is yours.”

A ripple of confusion and discontent cuts through the four others, who stand clumped together and more or less quiet. It’s the shock, Nick’s sure. It’ll wear off in an hour or so. Edith nods at Ingram, then turns to them. Her expression is not unkind.

Still, her voice is firm when she says, “You, and the remainder of the Brotherhood at Boston Airport will be absorbed into the Commonwealth Minutemen, and will be treated as fairly as any other member of the militia. If any of you take issue with this decision we will provide you with the supplies necessary to get you safely back south, and let you go freely,” she pauses and breathes in, then gestures at the corpses at her feet, “If you take issue with _that_ , then we will put you down like dogs. Any questions?”

A murmur runs through them again. They shift uncertainly, their eyes darting from Edith, to Ingram, to the rifles of the Minutemen on the walls.

They stay silent. Edith nods once, and turns, lifting her chin. “Captain Biggs,” she calls out, and a woman who had been sitting on the stairs strides to stand in front of her. Edith jerks her head towards the eleven, “Show these good men and women where they’ll be sleeping for the night. Ingram will help you catalog and add their weapons to the armory.”

Biggs nods, and that acts as the cue for people to unfreeze and jump into action. Rotations pick back up along the wall. Shaw disappears – likely off to the armory to give Ingram and her charges a warm welcome. Garvey comes down from the wall to clasp Edith’s shoulder.

“Anything they had that’s valuable, take it, but burn the coat,” she tells him, “Or tear it apart, I don’t care. Make something useful out of it.”

Garvey nods, and starts coordinating the removal of the bodies.

Edith moves to Nick as if she’s in a dream.

Once she’s close enough he loops an arm around her waist and they slip out the front gates, the two of them, and they go down to the water.

 

She’s shaking, and his hands ghost gently over the bandages on her neck, over where he knows she’s got wounds still healing in her side, in her shoulder, on her back. She’s – she shouldn’t have been standing as long as she has been today. He feels he’s spinning – walking over something sharp and slow.

He still doesn’t understand why he can feel _grief_.

“Nick, I’m fine,” she says. She doesn’t sound fine. She sounds winded and hoarse and she’s shaking like she’s going to come apart at the seams.

“Darling,” he says, cupping her cheek, smoothing a thumb over her skin. She’s crying, her breath coming in little hiccups.

“I’m fine,” she says again, desperate. “I-”

“You did what you had to,” he says, making her meet his eyes. Her face twists, and she reaches for Nick’s hand. He takes hers, laces their fingers together and squeezes tight. “ _Edith_. You did the right thing. It’s okay.”

“It didn’t,” she chokes, gasping for air, “It didn’t – nothing’s _changed_.”

He drags her down, slings an arm over her shoulders.

They collapse into a heap on the sand, and he makes little shushing sounds while they rock back and forth and she cries. “They’re still – he’s still _gone_ ,” she moans, and he closes his eyes, holds her close. He feels her open her mouth like she’s going to scream, and nothing but a hiss of breath comes out. “I never- “

“I know; I know,” he says, “I feel it too.”

 

_iii._

“What’s eating you, kid?” he asks. He can see the wheels turning in her head. She’s drowning in something.

She swallows, licks her lips. “I’m just tired, Nick,” she admits, her voice heavy, “It’s nothing you don’t already know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! as always, I'm over at seaborgois on tumblr
> 
> until next time, kisses!


End file.
